


Three Times Fael Kissed Dorian

by LeVen



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, five times kissed but shorter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 12:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeVen/pseuds/LeVen
Summary: Cute Pavellan moments feat. Fael Lavellan





	Three Times Fael Kissed Dorian

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KuroCyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuroCyou/gifts).



I.  
Their first kiss is little more than an impulse, an uncontained desire on Fael’s part. They’re both nearing the bottom of their cups, and the liquor loosens Dorian’s tongue; he talks mostly of his father. Fael listens quietly as he speaks about his pain and struggles; the sharp taste of the alcohol doesn’t seem nearly so bad sitting beside him, sharing in his life.  
“You must think I’m selfish,” Dorian says bitterly; it is clear it isn’t the wine talking. “Maker only knows what you must think of me now.” He adds a moment later, a sad afterthought. He chuckles without humor, as if to mask the doubts and insecurities he has long kept buried. Dorian turns, then, to face the other, searching for something in his expression. Reassurance. ‘Maker, don’t deny me this’. His eyes plead for acceptance Fael willingly gives.  
“I think you’re quite brave.”  
The words are genuine. The man has poured out his heart and soul, laid it all on the table, given him the gift of honesty. Dorian laughs, and Fael hears him respond; but the words are lost, his focus on the shape of the man’s lips, the way they moved. He wants to say more, but instead set aside his cup, leaning closer to Dorian; he stops thinking, then, brushing his nose against Dorian’s, until their lips finally meet.  
He tastes of the last sip of alcohol, breath sweet with the smell of wine, strong enough to make his head spin. Dizzy from alcohol, drunk on a kiss. Dorian tenses, almost recoils; but his surprise lasts only a moment before melting into desire. He kisses back, eager; they’re both grasping for strings dangling in front of their faces, finally within reach. Fael takes it, tugging with both hands, because it’s his first chance, because he loves him.  
He’s out of breath when he finally pulls away; his head spinning, reeling, intoxicated and electrified from the contact. He allows the feeling to pool in the bottom of his stomach, warming him more than any beer ever could. It is only when he sees the look on Dorian’s face that he realizes the implications of his choice. His face is hot, then cold, then hot all over again, as the dread plows into him like a stampede.  
What have I done? Fenedhis!  
Fael stands. Awkwardly. He doesn’t bother to grab his cup, nor the bottle of his good alcohol he brought with him. They were drunk, he was drunk. Wasn’t that just taking advantage of Dorian in his misery?  
“I have to…” Fael stumbles, inching away like a criminal come face to face with the law. “A war room meeting!” There wasn’t any meeting, of course; it was well into the evening.  
“Bye!” He leaves Dorian there, still sitting beside the bookcase in the library, before he can ramble off more excuses. The worst part was, despite the embarrassment crushing him, he had enjoyed it. A stolen moment, an impulse unexpectedly reciprocated, shared like teenage boys discovering themselves for the first time. The sensation of the kiss lingered for both of them. 

 

II.  
He wakes with Dorian’s arms tangled around him. Half their covers are thrown off his side of the bed. Theirs. When did he develop a side on his own bed?  
Sleep had proven elusive as of late. Hot, oppressive air clung to his skin, his hair, leaving everything slightly sticky. Perhaps his sweat was to blame. Fael shifts, pulling aching arms near to his body. The mark glows green, an ugly crack upon his palm dim and pulsing with each beat of his heart. A mark he never wanted. A mistake. Fael curls it into a fist, light spilling between his fingers before it fades, and his room grows dark again.  
The warm summer breeze shifts the light curtains on the balcony, carrying with it clean mountain air, fragrant with pine. It cools the sweat on the back of his neck, and despite the warmth in the air, it chills him. Fael shifts, snuggling close enough to rest his cheek upon Dorian’s bare chest. Against it, he can hear the steady rhythm of his heart. Gentle, regular. Safe. Dorian doesn’t wake, but he doesn’t need to. Echoes of the Fade slowly dissipate like smoke; the screams no longer bouncing around inside his skull. Slowly, the remnants of his dreams are replaced by Dorian. The nightmares never stopped, but it was easier somehow, to have another’s presence to protect him.  
He presses a soft kiss to the underside of Dorian’s jaw - gentle enough to avoid waking even the most restless child. He wouldn’t remember this, though Fael supposed it didn’t matter. Would Dorian do the same?  
His jaw prickled on his lips from where he’d been clean shaven. He feels rougher, or maybe Fael feels rougher. Inside he swells, filling to the brim. The feeling he identifies is happiness, flowing over the walls built of paranoia and sadness surrounding both their hearts. Everything he could want, beneath his lips and shaped like a man his brother would be wary of.  
Fael doesn’t sleep much that night. He lies awake, his face buried in the crook of Dorian’s neck, until the whispers of his fear go quiet.

 

III.  
Above them, the rain threatened to collapse their tent on top of them. Dorian sat perched upon his bedroll under many layers, while drops of water poured from a tiny tear in the roof. Two mages, but neither of them could keep the shelter from leaking.  
“Southern weather is terrible,” Dorian muttered, sniffing. “I don’t know how you lot put up with it.” Fael had never been near Tevinter; his never straying close enough to enjoy the weather. He presumed it was nicer, given how often Dorian was apt to complain about the rain.  
Fael smiled. “Usually we stay dry.” He crawls forward, curling up at Dorian’s side (noticeably away from the ever-growing puddle). Then, he rummages around in his pack, producing a wax sealant after a few moments. The tent is large enough for both of them to stand, courtesy of the Inquisitions soldiers. It’s nice. Spacious. Not unlike the traveling tent he carried before the Conclave. Fael stands, pressing the sealant to the ceiling of the tent. The water drips over his head, running down the side of his face and cheek.  
“We should move the bedrolls away from the leak,” He says, nudging the roll Dorian was sitting on with a foot. Dorian happily complies, and they scoot the rolls clear away from the puddle right up against the edge of the tent. All of the Inquisition’s tents were waterproofed, and save for the occasional leak, they fared well against the damp. They didn’t do much for the cold, however.  
Dorian opens his blanket for Fael to climb under, pulling him firmly against his side. One arm slung over his shoulders, Fael’s arms around Dorian’s waist, one cheek against his collarbone. The blankets were warm from his lover’s body heat, chasing away the chill in his bones. Dorian uses the edge of his sleeve to wipe Fael’s face dry with a lazy motion. “A mess,” He mumbles, loud enough for only the two of them to hear. Fael leans forward, and Dorian meets him there. The scratch of his moustache is familiar, rubbing against his lips when Fael finds his bottom lip. Languid expressions of affection, a wordless affirmation. He smiles into their kiss, stealing a second on the corner of Dorian’s mouth before he has the motivation to pull away.  
“I love you.” He says.  
“I know.” He answers.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for kurogoesinthedas for Dragon Age Secret Santa :D  
> It was meant to be longer...but the procrastination was real. It was fun to write


End file.
